


Brink

by fleete



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, Angst, F/M, Homicidal Thoughts, Mildly Dubious Consent, POV Female Character, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 16:34:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleete/pseuds/fleete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin is Emrys.  Morgana is going to kill him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brink

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dk323](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dk323/gifts).



> dk323, I liked the idea of a secret, angsty meeting, and I wanted to see what such a meeting would look like if I made it canon-compliant. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Canon-compliant up until 5x07, after that will likely be considered AU. One tiny spoiler for the first two minutes of 5x03, otherwise spoiler-free for S5, including casting spoilers.
> 
> This fic was beta-d and made 185% percent better by verity. Thanks dear!
> 
> See end-notes for explanation of dub-con warning.

Merlin is Emrys.

She can’t think clearly. She just can’t— _can’t_ —get past the overwhelming rage. She throws pots and stones and weapons. She accidentally sends one of her men flying against a stone wall and has to heal his resulting head wound. She breaks her table and chairs into tiny splintered pieces.

Eventually, she goes outside and sets a tree on fire. She watches it burn for hours, nudging the fire with her magic anytime it threatens to jump to nearby trees.

She goes through a cycle. Merlin is going to die, she’ll think. He’s going to burn and twist and scream. She’s going to kill him as slowly and painfully as possible. And then she remembers with a start that Merlin is _Emrys_ , and that if she’s going to manage to kill him at all, she’ll have to do it quickly. Silently. Out of nowhere.

And then she’s back at the beginning. How dare he. That betrayer.

(He had been the only person in Camelot who knew about her magic, the only one. He had brought her to the Druids, had helped her save Mordred, had hidden her secret from Arthur and Uther. And then he had poured poison down her throat like the faithless coward he is.)

She’s going to kill him.

But Merlin is Emrys. And Emrys, she’s not so sure she can kill. He is a figure of her nightmares. He is her own personal monster, her death, and her “doom,” if the seers are to be believed. He is unholy power in an old man’s body, and it makes her stomach heave, to contemplate fighting him again. It seems so impossible, that Merlin and he are the same man. 

And Arthur, she realizes suddenly. Arthur must know. There is no way in hell he doesn’t. That hypocritical, traitorous, parricidal stain upon the earth. Morgana is going to pluck his eyes from his face.

Another tree goes up in hot, violent flames.

*

After a full day of confusing, circular rage, she calms down enough to think.

She brings Emrys’ gnarled old face to mind and tries to trace the similarities to Merlin’s. She tries to remember what, exactly, Arthur had said about magic and whether he had specifically condemned it in her hearing. She tries to remember where she saw Emrys and where she didn’t. She contemplates every time Merlin had told her, earnest-faced and apologetic, that he had no way of helping her. The most powerful sorcerer in all the land had watched her weep and decided she wasn’t deserving of his help.

The only conclusion she can come to is that Merlin is a spectacular liar. Far more dangerous than Morgana had ever given him credit for.

But Morgana keeps circling back to the whys and the hows. Emrys and Merlin are the same man. There are no words for how fiercely she needs to understand this.

She has to see him up close. She has to understand.

It takes her days of frustratingly slow research, but she finds a spell for it, a difficult, complicated enchantment in the back of one of Morgause’s old books. She’s going to disguise herself and get close to Merlin during the Yule celebrations. She’ll be a comely Druid maiden, wide-eyed and innocent-looking. He will come to her like a moth to the flame.

Whenever she lets herself think about what purpose this plan could possibly serve, she tells herself she is gathering information. Finding a way to hurt him. Maybe if there’s an opportunity and she’s quick, she can even kill him.

The throne can wait.

*

People come from leagues away to take part in the Yule celebrations: noblemen and women up in the citadel, traders and peasants down in the lower town. But after the King’s feast is over and done, the gates to the citadel always open up and the lower castle folk—servants, foot soldiers, and even some knights—will stream out and join the rest of them for drinking and dancing around a flaming Yule log.

Morgana arrives early, before anyone is too drunk. She has chosen a plainish, but pleasant face, something not too far from her own. Younger by a lot. She keeps her own hair, brushing it smooth and plaiting it in the back. 

It’s surprisingly easy to get swept up into a laughing group of girls—laundresses, baker’s daughters, and a few trader’s daughters. She smiles and smiles until her cheeks hurt, and the girls accept her. She has a simple story, something believable. Many traders come to Camelot especially for Yule; she says she’s from one of these trader families. That she’s never been here before. She meets more than one person who says, “Me too!” excitedly, so she knows it’s a good story. They are all teenagers and young enough to feel awkward, to want desperately for friends. It’s really quite simple to spend an hour or two buttering them up, getting them used to her so that they will talk later.

“Oh, look, it’s the knights!” one squeals, and Morgana cranes her neck with the rest of the girls. Servants and foot soldiers are streaming out of the gate to the citadel, the knights in their red cloaks and gleaming armor conspicuous among them. Many of them head straight for the cart with the barrels of mead. It’s hard to tell apart the servants at first. It’s dark, and their clothing is drab. She searches the necks of all the male servants for Merlin’s ever-present scarf. For a moment, she’s afraid he’s not there, but then he emerges from behind Sir Percival, laughing at something one of the knights is saying. Morgana breathes out a sigh of relief, even while her pulse beats faster at the sight of him. _Emrys._

The girls who live in Camelot are pointing out specific knights to the other girls. One young know-it-all with flaming red hair is listing off all the eligible knights.

“And that one’s Galahad, he’s quite good-looking, and Martha from the kitchens says he’s never had a girl in his life! Oh, and Percival, the tall one? Isn’t he lovely? I swear, if he asked me to run naked through the square, I’d do it.”

“No, you wouldn’t!”

“I would so!” And then the two girls get into a squabble which is about to become extremely irritating, so Morgana interrupts them.

“Who’s that one?” she asks, pointing at Merlin.

“Oh, he’s the King’s servant. Mira here thinks he’s handsome, but I don’t.”

“No, I don’t!” Mira retorts.

The red-haired girl looks like she’ll start arguing again. Morgana hurriedly brings her attention back to Merlin: “Has he a girl, then?” Oh, that would perfect, if there were someone she could use to blackmail him.

“No, no, no. Well, no one’s ever seen him with one. One of the kitchen girls gave him a try a few years back, but he didn’t even notice she was flirting with him. He’s an odd one.”

All of the other Camelot girls nod. 

“He may be odd, but don’t pretend you wouldn’t have him if he asked you,” said Mira.

The red-haired girl snorted. “Well I’m not stupid.”

Which is a strange thing to say. “What do you mean?” Morgana asks curiously.

“He’s the king’s own servant, isn’t he? And he knows all the king’s secrets, is always in on important meetings and such. He’s got a good position. Any wife of his would be set for life.”

There’s more talk about Merlin after that, but nothing useful for Morgana’s purposes. The girls don’t say it out loud, but they all seem to think he is unattainable. Being that close to Arthur seems to have had some repercussions. He’s too high for the servant girls and too low for the noblewomen. When Morgana tries to pry even more information out of the girls, they start to get knowing looks in their eyes. They think she’s a gold digger, going after the King’s undoubtedly well-paid servant. They’re mistaken, of course. Morgana is certain that Merlin receives very little material benefit from being Arthur’s servant. There are stable boys better dressed. (Merlin could ask, of course, for anything he wanted. Arthur would kick up a fuss, pretend that he didn’t give a damn, but Merlin would have it, whatever it was, by the end of the day.)

“I dare you to ask him a dance, Tyla,” one of the youngest girls titters.

“No!” the other girl rebuts, and then it becomes a dogpile, all the rest of them egging on young Tyla.

“I will,” Morgana said, standing. The other girls cheer her on, and call out encouragement at her back.

He’s standing between Sir Gwaine and another knight Morgana doesn’t know. Morgana marches straight up to him, hearing the giggles of the girls some distance behind her. She has to fight the compulsive anger climbing up her throat. If she reveals herself, she’s done for.

Morgana stops an arm’s-length short of Merlin, who doesn’t notice her at first, tucking his hands into his armpits against the cold.

“Hello,” she says, affecting a nervous expression. “Would you like to dance with me?” She bats her eyes.

“What?” Merlin seems surprised, but Gwaine is grinning next to him.

Morgana channels Gwen—the way she had been when they were children together. “I…well, I’m new to Camelot, and I didn’t know who to dance with and the other girls over there said I should ask you, because you were kind, and oh, I’m probably not meant to say all that, I—”

“’Course he’ll dance with you!” Gwaine interrupts, putting a hand between Merlin’s shoulder blades and shoving him forward. Merlin stumbles up against Morgana’s chest, shuffling backwards with a “Sorry.”

But then he smiles down at her, more assured of himself than when Morgana had known him, years ago. “I’d be honored. My name’s Merlin,” he said, holding out a hand. Morgana steels herself with a stiff smile and takes his hand, shakes it quickly.

“I’m Macha,” she says, casting her eyes down.

“Oh,” he says. He’s looking her over more carefully now, and Morgana hopes it is because he knows the significance of the name she picked and not because he suspects a deception. From what Morgana had been able to find out, _most_ Druids are aware of Merlin’s true identity; he had apparently spoken with the local clan elders on more than one occasion. She had hoped that Merlin would be suspicious of a Druid who approached him specifically.

“Shall we?” she says, turning toward the fire. This is going to work.

The dance isn’t one Morgana has done before: one of those circle things that only the peasants do, running around the fire. It gives her a reason for her pounding heart, at least.

The dance has partners holding each other’s hands for long periods, with a swing away from each other and then back in. Merlin’s hands are large, long-fingered, calloused from hard work. Morgana finds herself looking at his hands instead of his face, which is eerie in the firelight. His eyes pick up the shine of the fire, and whenever she spins back into his arms with his eyes golden like that, she shivers.

When the dance ends, Morgana almost trips trying to come to a stop; she’s hot all over and breathless.

“Thank you for the dance,” she says to Merlin, who has braced a solicitous hand against her elbow.

“Thank you, Macha,” he says. He’s thinking about the name again, she can tell.

Morgana puts on a nervous expression. “Yes. Thank you.” She allows Merlin to lead her over to a low wall and doesn’t miss when Gwaine grins at them as they pass. They sit, both of them pausing to catch their breaths.

Merlin looks over at her. His face half in shadow and half tinged orange by the fire. “Macha is a Druid name, is it not?” he asks, pitching his voice low.

“I…” She darts a look up at him and looks down again. “Yes. I was named for the triple-goddess.”

Sure enough, Merlin stares at her, hard, like he is challenging her to call him by his Druid name, to admit that, as a Druid, she surely knows who he is.

“I— Forgive me,” Morgana stutters. Gods, this is going so smoothly. She wants to crow with victory. “I know who you are, but I…I only wanted to dance with you. I wanted to see what you were like. I’m sorry I didn’t say that I knew who you were, but there were knights all around, and I— I’m sorry.” She bites at her bottom lip, the way Gwen used to do, and shakes her head. “I see I’ve offended you. I’ll leave you to the festivities.”

Morgana pushes herself up and off the wall and walks quickly, struggling not to break out in a grin, because Merlin’s face during that speech had been _perfect_ , a mix of believing and charmed and forgiving. She doesn’t even get a few steps before she hears him call out, “Macha!”

She turns, and he’s already there, his long legs bringing him up next to her, and he catches her hand.

“It’s all right. Thank you, for being honest with me, and for not exposing me to the knights.”

“Of course!” Morgana says. “I would not endanger Em— you. Not for anything. Your mission here is too important.”

Well, that got him. His eyes on her are already warmer, more trusting, and Morgana can feel a sharp sense of glee welling up in her throat. She lets it out in the form of a smile, a real one, that he returns. How good it will be, to see him bleed.

His hand tightens around her fingers. “Do you want to sit and talk for a while?” Merlin asks, just a little uncertainty in his face.

Morgana grins, feeling some of her true nervous excitement edge into her lips. “Yes, please.”

Merlin goes to get them some watered-down mead and sweetbread, and they slip away from the light and music of the Yule log, eventually seating themselves on the darkened step of the baker’s cottage to eat and drink.

“Is this all right?” he asks her belatedly.

“Of course!” she responds. The sweetbread is good, going down, and it fortifies her a little, to have something in her stomach.

She tells him the same story she told the girls, and he nods in all the right places. Merlin tells her about the drunken escapades of one of the young knights at the King’s feast earlier that night. Part way through his story, a wind blows cold and sudden down the empty street, and she takes the opportunity to shift on the step so that she is pressed against him from knee to shoulder. He stutters in his storytelling, and Morgana swallows down a mean laugh.

“And then, after he’d spilled his drink all down Lady Enid’s dress, Arthur had him thrown out. I think he just went down to the Yule log in the lower town and started up again.” He laughs a little, starting to settle more comfortably against her, and she cheers inwardly when he slips an arm around her shoulder. She hadn’t intended to seduce him, but yes. Yes, this is good. Men will give up all kinds of secrets for a tumble.

“Emrys,” she whispers, and oh, calling him that sends a shiver up her back. “May I ask…what does the King think of your magic?”

Merlin is silent for a while, and Morgana can hardly wait for whatever absurd rationalization Arthur has cooked up to—

“He doesn’t know.”

Her shock is genuine. “What? But…”

“He still believes that magic is evil. But he will come around. Someday Camelot will be safe for our kind.” He says it strangely, almost with a faint rhythm to it, like he is reciting poetry. Or a prayer.

Morgana doesn’t have to act for her next question. “How can you believe that? After all these years when Arthur has not yet lifted the ban on magic?”

“We must trust that it will happen. Arthur Pendragon is a good man. I saw him pardon a witch with my own eyes; some villagers were going to burn her, but he saved her.”

Morgana has to look away from him; she has no control over her face right now. It doesn’t make any _sense_. If Merlin really believes that Arthur is so forgiving, then why does he not reveal himself?

“I know it’s frustrating,” he says when she doesn’t respond.

Morgana pulls herself together.

“Yes. I’m sorry. We shouldn’t talk about sad things on Yuletide.” She turns a smile at him. “Tell me a story of an adventure you’ve had. Tell me something you’ve done that nobody knows about.”

She means to distract him and to gain information about what he can do. But he turns to her then, searching her face with a new expression. For a long, ugly minute, he says nothing. Morgana plays with the cup in her hands and runs through every deadly spell she knows.

Finally, Merlin sighs through his nose, warm air against her hair, and then he opens his mouth to tell her how he defeated Nimueh. He tells her how he manipulated a spell of life and death, how he called down lightning, and how he turned her to dust. It sounds nothing so much as a threat, having Merlin—Emrys—sitting pressed against her, whispering his impossible powers.

Morgana’s breath has gone shallow. Does he know? Does he suspect? How can he? 

Their faces are so close, she can feel his breath on her lips. “Sounds frightening, doesn’t it?” he says, low in his throat. “I was terrified. But I was even more angry. I think that’s what kept me from running away. I was so, so angry, and I just…burned her up.” His mouth opens and closes a few times. “I had to put all my anger somewhere, you know?”

*

It’s a good idea, she tells herself, to take him by the hand and pull him into a back alley where it’s dark and quiet. She can humiliate him. She can injure him. She might even be able to kill him, if she works quickly enough.

Morgana kisses him instead. She presses him back against a house with an eave to cast a dark shadow and kisses him there. They fumble with their clothes and make pitiful attempts at getting her legs around his waist, but eventually they end up on the ground, Morgana sprawled open over Merlin’s lap. One of Merlin’s hands is up her skirt, lifting it away so that she can work herself down onto his cock and the other is braced against the stones, trying to get some leverage to thrust upwards.

Her knees are uncomfortable on the cold cobblestones on either side of his hips, but her cunt is wet and buzzing warm around him. It’s good. It’s better than good, actually, which surprises her, somewhere in the back of her mind that isn’t consumed by _yes, harder, yes_.

She puts her hands on either side of his face, sweeping her thumbs up and down those strident cheekbones. It feels like power, to have his face in her hands, his skull between her palms. She could take him apart, seated right here on his prick.

Just as she thinks it, though, Merlin’s fingers flex on her hip and dig in like claws. Morgana grunts.

She leans in close enough to kiss and says without thinking, “You put on such an innocent face, Emrys, going around disguised as yourself.”

“And you,” he pants, nipping at her lips.

“What about me?”

“Disguised as yourself. The scared little girl who calls herself a war goddess?”

Oh gods, he knows. Her fingers tighten convulsively on his face, but he doesn’t falter, just thrusts up and up and up. Their lips scrape together, but they don’t kiss.

“Macha protect me, though I may fear,” Morgana recites. He laughs in little huffs that taste like the mead he’s been drinking.

“Are you afraid— _Ah_!” His eyes squeeze shut, and he stills, mouth going slack in his pleasure.

He’s not beautiful like that, not even a little bit, and so Morgana doesn’t know why it makes every muscle between her legs contract around him. He’s not moving any more, frustratingly. Morgana is forced to chase her own pleasure by riding him. She throws her head back and stares at the eave above her, sees the drip of water off a broken rafter, listens to the distant singing and shouting of Yuletide echo down the empty streets and alleys.

“Are you afraid of me, Morgana?”

There’s a narrow strip of stars visible beyond the eave, and she fixes her eyes on them until she comes.

**Author's Note:**

> Morgana has sex with Merlin while she is in disguise. At first, it’s ambiguous whether Merlin knows that it is her and whether he would still consent if he knew it were her. Eventually, it is revealed that he does know who she is, and implied that he figured it out before they started having sex.
> 
> There’s a line in here than I’m blatantly stealing from the film _Albert Nobbs_ , which is based on a book I haven’t read. The partial prayer to Macha is a real one I found on the [Order of the White Moon’s website](http://orderwhitemoon.org/goddess/Macha/index.html); they seem to be part of the Dianic Wiccan tradition, but I’m not entirely sure.


End file.
